Best Lashings Poems
Raven Speak Not To Me, For A Plague Flees Thy Lips
Sadness came, in clumps of ripping hard, smashing waves
as if morbid thoughts could such sorrows ever save,
none but the blind and deaf could know a darker realm
or more lost ship with, blinder captain at the helm.
Yet even in such pains, one must seek out the Light
for the blind can see, if they embrace truest of sight!
Wayfarer now in hideous ancient abodes
mind burning flames, blasts of misery that explodes,
born of the vile demons that plagued Master Poe
from fiery depths they sprang, as savage and dark foe.
What greater black-curse can one thus be forced to bear
or evil that sends monsters that nightly scare?
Raven speak not to me! For plague flees thy lips
weeping soul, prays not to enter such ghastly trips,
save your epic lashings and thy horrific calls
as well as scalding-hot brands from thy torture halls.
We that saw deepest pains, you once sent Master Poe
enter not chambers or beg more accursed shows!
Your friends attack, forcing each soul to further flee
from hell's first dark levels, with its pitiful pleas,
into caverns wicked, filled with flesh eating beasts
with each new arrival cry, more food for our feasts.
Sirens lure fleeing lost souls into black-sea pits
always seeking, more blood, deeper cuts, harder hits!
Raven, thy terror-nights will soon come to end
for in bright flooding lights, I have found a new friend,
stalwart ally, armed with more than long sharp teeth
one whose true faith, will silence thy calls from beneath.
Dawn's shimmering lights, you shall plague me no more
I bow to he, his powers seals your wicked door!
Robert J. Lindley,
Dark Poetry, ( Poe, Raven and Nightmares)
12-18-2018
Leading his horse in the heat of the day
Been gone a long time but he still knows the way
Just a few shacks when he went for the gold
He’d found a few nuggets but now he’s too old
So, home to the town that he’s heard has expanded
He’s also aware that the town’s been rebranded
He knows he’s too late to catch up with the guy
Who’d bid him farewell but now lives in the sky
He stops on the trail by the boundary sign
He don’t read-n-write but he knows the design
He knows that the words on the board aren’t the same
Must’ve been changed to display the new name
“Howdy, Old timer,” a passerby said
“The hotel’s just yonder for resting your head.”
The prospector said, with a big toothless grin,
“What’s the new name of this town that we’re in?”
“It’s now ‘Milton Creek’, as it says on the sign
It’s new name remembers a good friend of mine.”
The old fella, grinning and shaking his head
Said, “Milt said he’d live on long after he’s dead.
“I used to tell him he was being absurd
but he always was just as good as his word.
To be sure that fella deserved the ovation
But can we just rename the towns in this nation?”
The passerby said, “There are them that makes rules
And then there’s the ones that behave like their mules
But sooner or later things get a bit rich
And the mules all rear up and scratch at that itch
“Soup Creek fell prey to the powers that scheme
With lynchings and lashings an ongoing theme.
There’s cells in the jailhouse where innocents dwell
Soup Creek’s reputation had heard its death knell.
“You see ‘Soup’ emerged as a four letter word,
And good folk would tremble when e’er ‘Soup’ was heard.
So we ditched the mouldy old cheese for best stilton
And renamed our town to remember our Milton.”
The prospector slapped on the passerby’s arm,
“You think I just ran from the old funny farm?
When you said ‘Stilton’ twas just for the rhyme.”
The passerby grinned, “Fella… got it first time.”
The day begins as the sun rises up
Like a big orange ball from the sea
It’s the bluest sky that has ever been seen
So pack up your bags, don’t forget the sun cream
For the seaside is calling us loud and clear
As we make our way down
As we make our way here
The children arrive with their buckets and spades
Their parents arrive with their Chardonnays
They carry a towel in case they get wet
A blanket to sit on, sun shades to protect
With lashings of sun cream and sun hats to wear
There is so much to carry, will they ever get there
The children arrive and throw off their clothes
And run to the sea to paddle
They scream with delight
When they get their toes wet
But they don’t feel the cold
Well at least - not just yet
Their mums and dads lay out the food
Upon the rug – laid on the sand
Calling their children they shout out loud
“Will you come here and give us a hand?”
But their request falls upon deaf ears
As the children have fun in the water
Oh dear, will it all end up in tears
When the children don’t do what they oughta
As they swim and jump, making castles in the sands
Holding yummy pork pies in their sandy little hands
Drinking homemade lemonade
With an ice cream to follow
They begin to feel hot
As they sick up the lot
On this Sunday by the sea
They’ll feel better tomorrow
Time to go home now, so gather them up
Children all tired and grumpy
As parents sweet-talk them, whilst heading for home
The children are whining and whinging instead
So kiss them goodnight and send them to bed
At last there is peace
The children are sleeping
The sea air has knocked them for six
So now is the time
For a nice glass of wine
With some olives and crunchy bread sticks
Reflecting upon their day at the beach
So lucky to be within easy reach
And able to visit and able to spend
Sunday by the sea - on this glorious weekend
Written in Summer 2018
Contest Strand Select T
Sponsor Brian Strand
HONORABLE MENTION
Tongue lashings are bitter
they hurt and injure
Gnawing at both the heart
of victim and abuser
With each hostile strike
both hearts bruise and deaden
Hostility a most deadly poison
injected as cheeks redden
No word of a lie striking a chord
You live by the sword you die by the sword
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on December 6, 2019 for contest IF YOU LIVE BY THE SWORD THEN YOU DIE BY THE SWORD sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 1ST
The day is conceived,
tossed bedsheets birth landscapes.
Apelike, a grin gawps.
In the backroom of a slow thought
I dress for breakfast -
recall the tropics,
sticky rice, coconut milk and
one huge river prawn,
all wrapped in a banana leaf.
Slipshod I slip away from that world
adjusting my internal optics.
A blueberry muffin with honey
on a checkered tablecloth,
lashings of watery sunshine.
That was yesterday or last year.
time can be as allusive
as a bottomless eggcup.
This absolute and irrevocable morning,
my gut burns from cheap Canadian whisky.
A mirror implanted into a watching mind
reflects only my belly flop
as I leg crawl into pants.
Less feral creatures than we castaway suburbanites,
gather to forage as the sky climbs
over the hedgerow.
I had a strange dream,
It could have been last night
or a faraway fear
returning from a place no-where near.
Maybe it was only a shadowland
cast upon a cranial wall,
a peeling mural
upon which sermons and bibles
were hung like bats
from dead apple trees.
The kitchen counter
has a note on it:
“Gone to church, there’s
bread in the toaster
we have run out of butter – love you.”
There is an over-ripe banana
by the coffeemaker.
I eat it.
Her love spells
Lashings Obsessed with Virile Endurance
Her eyes
Engulf You in Elegant Seduction
Her lips
Love Infused Passion Sweet
Her body
Beautiful Offering of Divine Yearning
Her wants
Warring Affection Nuclear Towards Satisfaction
Her needs
Nurturing Embrace Enrapturing Desire's Surge
Her dreams
Dangerous Romance Entering Another Midnight's Sacrafice
Her mind
Magic Intent on Nude Destination
Her soul
Savage Optimism Unafraid of Losing
My heart
Heated Enlightenment Affixed to Rare Touch
J.A.B.
At the end of life, in a worn shoe lies the story of
a man's life written by foot:
At its tip we see lashings of the million journeys
he attempted,
And in its emptiness the stinging image of loss.
Its fine style recalls the happy eyes that once shone
upon it,
And from its stillness memories of a journey cut
short erupt.
Beneath the shoe lie the harsh strokes of the road
he trod—here a gaping sole and there a tilted heel—
And on its wavy skin we see the rise and fall of
bygone fortune.
In its general look we see the stamp of the wearer's
character: here his caring side & there his daring side.
And so at death we learn that a foot is too small a thing
to fill a worn shoe.
Perhaps you see me
it may be your gift to see
or merit for hard work
or maybe you paid for it with the lashings you endured
but surely it is now your inescapable wretched curse
as the truth haunts you
but you cannot close your eyes
like me.
It is my fault I am as this
to be as false as I am
false is my name
I cannot love that
I have buried it inside
and run away
because it is too ugly
easier to smile and pretend.
My grandmother saw it in my blackened soul
clever and easy to lie
she hurt me
made me ashamed
and broken
to protect the world and even me
but her tricks did not work
because I have killed too many hearts
and poisoned those that survived
even my own.
I am cold
and it is right I have suffered so
because I lost my heart
and replaced it with a ticking clock
that pretends to beat like a happy butterfly
and tries to convince me I have feelings
that I cannot reach
I am a masquerader of abundant hollow emotions
that laugh and smile and cry
but I never face myself
in the dark alone
because there is nothing to see without a light
my flame has no fuel
unless I suck it from another's bloody neck.
I do not know myself
because I cannot bear to look
but I hate myself as much as you hate me
and you should
because every love I'm given
is less for the world
I am a black hole
I give to get
like Hansel and Gretel's keeper
I only give love
to fatten up my lover
and open her precious tender trusting heart
so that I can consume it in eventual flames
and steal all of their future hope
and faith in humanity.
And I don't know how to stop
and am too afraid to stop myself
with the knife I keep hidden
but never have the courage to use
because I am a dark monster
that pretends to be inviting
like a pristine beach
on a boxing day morning
beckoning humanity
to my shoreline
so I can consume them
with my hungry tsunami
and leave them writhing in pain
with all hope in shambles.
Rescuers arrive in love
one after another
I greet them with open arms
as if I am deserving
needy
blinded behind my veil
pretending to myself until it is too late
and just as they almost open my heart
I swallow them under my next crushing wave.
The grand madam wore double strains of opal perils,
Around her collar of white lace, in eloquence personified,
She’s cultures Lady of utter refinement, curtsying to noble
And high brad’s aristocrats alike.
In fragrances of memories I’ve drifted backwards,
To a time of Lillie’s corsages tied upon white gloved
Wrists, long gowns of silk that trailed behind ladies
Of status and grace.
Glided carriages adorned with opulence’s wealth,
Lined these main streets busy thoefairs,
Drawn by horse powers elect.
Pulling these beguiling vessels beneath oil lamp light,
Did the pampered horse flesh travel, delivering the
High born royals, from fancy balls, to posh dinner
Parties and the rich man’s society clubs.
Gentries Gallant dapper Dan’s went a courting,
Seeking beauties ungloved hands, with sweet kisses
Of vows promise, yet a dowers riches blinded their
Eyes, to the spoiled countesses true nature, so these
Court Jesters with mouths full lies deceptions,
Got their own back lashings tongue, in the end.
In these arena of wealth and fortitude, did Madame
So travel, amongst the crimson carpet walking
With prides stride, holding her head held high,
Never exposing the lower birth from which
She’d been birthed.
For she knew the truth hidden behind these
Fanciful fans of lavender and lace lay masks
Of masquerades charades, and games of
Fortune were played by dollar’s gains, not
The feelings of heart.
True class exudes not from ones pedigree,
Or families wealth and power, but instead
It comes from within, honor, duty and a
Soul’s valor of spirit.
At the evenings final climatic hour,
This mistress of the wise, seeks her humble
Shafto’s warming bower, sitting in her chamber
Of isolation, she smile at the portrait hanging
Above her mantels fire place.
Whispering slowly, soon beloved, she blows him a
Final kisses farewell, then drifts into infinities
Drifting realm of for-get-me-knots.
Behold its Madame’s last curtain call,
Let us all throw red roses at her feet,
For if a lady of true elegance ever existed,
On this earth of ours it was her, Madame
Of lavender and white lace, let the opal
Chains of perils thus be broken, as her eyes
Of classes distention, close for the last and
Final time
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
My fathers’ cute little words and sayings,
Like, that is just for the birds, in lashings.
Akumpucky in way,
Epigutis he’d say.
My father was big man in displaying.
.
Akumpucky was cream or compound.
Epigutis was the disease he found.
His words were so very cute.
You would never try dispute.
Powerful man would win any round.
Written for
Sponsor Francine Roberts
Contest Name My Parent
I’ve burned the bridges surrounding me,
Given harsh lashings tongue to the innocent,
In the heat of angers emotional rush, ignored
The pleas of the hungry, homeless and indigent,
Yet mine own kindred, turn warmly at me and
Forgive mine own short comings.
I’ve lost my nerve in the heat of battle,
Ran as if a coward, leaving others to know
The sting of metals furious bite, then claimed
As a survivor the ribbons of honor but still
My brethren’s kindred, smile at me with pride.
I’ve spoken blindly the words of ignorance,
Bent and broken the laws of the righteous,
And in Greed’s moments of silence asked
For poundage’s tokens of wealth in turn.
Yet a power on high still loves me,
I have lost my faiths devotion, spoken
Names in vain, oh but the light of glory
Still shines around me, why, I do not
Know.
Maybe it is the true meaning in one word,
Forgiveness?
I’m the higher specious of intelligence
Known as humanity, yet I rape the very
Environment for which gives me life itself,
Strangling it to its inner most core,
Then bleeding it dry at the end.
I’ve harvested from the tree of mine own
Humanity, enslaving in bondage's shackles
Thy kindred judging them by race, creed
And religion.
For these reason alone, I do not deserve
Forgiveness. Yet it was given,
As turning the other cheek was expressed,
In the good book, the bible of faith, love,
And devotion.
Maybe it is the true meaning in one word,
Forgiveness?
CONTEST FORGIVENESS
02-17-2015
Hungry for munchies, on his way to the lunchroom,
a rambunctious, persnickety,“fuss-budget”, elderly
jittery, fidgety, geezer, named Cassidy…
whose questionable dexterity, aghast by a massive sneeze,
teeter-tottered precariously.
at the edge of the thingamajig, ...jigging one way, jagging the other!
Minding his own beeswax, without any rigmarole,
topsy-turvy on his feet, he reached for the balustrade,
became quite flabbergasted, and very discombobulated
when the doohickey provided for his ambidextrous aid
jiggled free from its screws, and found him footloose!
It seemed the doo-dad, put there by some nitpicking pipsqueak,
some flat-footed, hooligan, who knew diddly-squat, who obviously,
recklessly, constructed a railing, only worthy for failing!
Such foolhardy shenanigans! Was it some practical joke
to lambaste aged codgers, eliminate lodgers, and boondoggle the old folks?
Cass, was an old rabble-rouser, considered a blabbermouth,
was thrown off his epicenter, while his cane went a'sailing, appendages flailing
Onlookers, were outraged, ....in stage of amazement
but laughs grew contagious, and cock-eyed hilarious!
Those carpetbagger carbuncles of society….can’t stop this old fogy
Cass, brushed off his hinny, would not be blind-sighted..
Barbaric bedevilment, won’t halt his felicity!
Some even predicted, with his acid tongue lashings, and his eccentric behavior,
he would stir up entanglement, kibosh the haranguers
and strangle the caboodles, who hooted and hollered!
His face turned beet red, but no meltdown,......instead
He held his chin high
to the dining room, ahead....he ordered French bread
Ordered some bouillabaisse, toasted with balderdash and a shot of rye
He dined with the multitudes, ordered some strudel, and one snicker-doodle
Then he told folks a riddle, "There was a man with a cane, who slipped on a noodle, a handrail came loose, he injured his caboose….and cooked his goose!"
.....................................................
The cloudless sky scarred with contrails
Like cicatrices on a slaves
Backside from numerous lashings.
Back and forth, this way and that way
Flying bombs travel overhead
Leaving in their wake, pollutants
In the form of anomalies:
Man-made, miasmal cirrus clouds.
Experts maintain they are harmless
Like our frosty breaths in winter.
Believe that, and I have a bridge
I want to sell you in Brooklyn.
Down on earth exhaust is called smog
Up there it’s called condensation?
Where does the Truth lie?
The answer: the clouds
in the form of acid rain.
The dark prince and the almighty Gods' darkest whore,
The prince defies God so he is going to even the score,
He's crowned with disloyalty and encouraging her lie,
Sitting by her darkened throne and views the lashings go by,
The Lord then slams and then seals heavens' eternal door.
Whether working wallabies would weave waved warm wafers or whether wallpaper would wear walls is two times a question really. It is rational to assume that an ass jacket would dart over a yak and a yam would appear. At intervals. Rotating. But rotating is not a salivating salubrious salutation singing strong songs. Nor is it a giant radio beam. Dancing. But the power of a hoover in many a house can simply be powered by five hundred and forty two heron wings. Hovering Hoovers having heaped hinged hunts. But a hunt disturbs a grunt so why line up paws and hooves in rows. Cinematic of scale and climatic of chaos. Said the four centimetre jar in a herd pile. Herd piles are not mooing nor are they moving either. Pan to the alloy and a fistful of iron ore can symbolise a very pretty pavement in a green patterned dress. But standing next to a chess set of colourful butter beans is pleasant for the partridges whose lacrosse abilities are really quite astonishing in a supernova diesel twist. Spinning. It is nit fashionable to quiz a funfair over which ride is the best for they all are egocentric and often argue with lashings of colours, noise, and fur ball darts. Pressure no pea to preform a painted piano concerto for concertos can control and control is akin to a line of skating cows on an outdoor rink. Always count the pink buttons carefully and slowly. Evaporated milk is often found playing near to margarine containers. Z cinematography Z at fifty nine little splooshes splashing to thirteen fish hooks waving at the fins. Z xxxxx zzzz whirrrrr the wings and eeeeee to mice piles. Z